Five Million Seconds
by midnightneverland
Summary: Over five million seconds have passed since he last saw her smile and he's starting to forget what she looks like when she does. Warren doesn't know when it will be okay, it definitely isn't right now, but he knows that time whittles away at everything. Part Two of Seconds.
1. Chapter 1

There are over two million seconds in a month and it's been two months since Chloe has died. Warren gives Max space because he feels that's what she needs, but he keeps watch on her during their classes and makes sure someone else does when it's one they don't share. He picks up her assignments when she's not there, which is often, and drops them off at her door. He doesn't knock. Sometimes, he thinks he will, his fist clenched as it wavers in front of the door, but his hand always falls flat against his side again.

He is buried deep in homework, proofreading his horrible report for Ms. Grant's class, when he hears the creaking outside his door. He whirls around, expecting it to be one of the jocks trying to bribe him into writing essays for them. It's only the third time this week. But it's Max who stands at his doorway, hair disheveled and holding his hoodie close to her chest.

His breath catches; he's afraid that if it slips out, she will startle and run away. It's the first time he's seen her do anything besides walk to class and back to her dorm. He hasn't even heard her speak.

"I, uh, was returning your hoodie," she finally says, her voice hoarse as if she'd been crying.

He reaches for it then notices the death grip she has, the way her eyes sweep back and forth across his room as if she can't seem to focus on anything. His hand falls limply back down. "Actually, why don't you, you know, keep it for a while. Just in case," he rambles and he is an idiot, he is _such_ an idiot, and it's almost as if she doesn't even hear him.

But then she nods, and she's gone, head down, shoes dragging on the carpet. Then there's just silence. He sighs and turns back to his report, but the words just swim before him. He crumples up a post-it note from his first draft and tosses it at the wall behind him. For a know-it-all, he feels too much like a failure lately. He wishes he has all the answers.


	2. Chapter 2

Warren stays up too late watching movies, horrible B-crap films that should make him laugh with their outdated effects but he just flinches and has to turn it off. It feels a little too real tonight after seeing Max. He pulls his phone out and glances at her contact number. It's late, two am late, and he shouldn't text her. If anyone ever needed sleep, it's her, and he puts his phone down only to pick it up again.

"Goddamnit," he mutters and texts her anyway.

 _Are you okay_?

He throws his phone back onto his desk, disgusted with himself. He burrows his head into his pillow, willing sleep to come, just as the chime of a text message sounds.

 _No._

He pulls his shoes on before he's even realizing he's doing it, stumbling into the wall as he tries to text her back at the same time.

 _On my way._

He's at her door in less than two minutes, his fist poised against the door but unable to actually connect with the wood. He's been here a hundred times and he feels it'll be a hundred more. He bangs his head against the door and stumbles backwards when it opens.

Max stands there looking exactly as she had hours before. Shadows etch across her face; she looks almost skeletal in the dim hallway light.

"Hey," he whispers, because he doesn't know what to say, doesn't know the right thing to say, and she just walks away, leaving the door open.

He sits on the edge of her bed, winces, then moves to the couch, trying to focus on his shoelaces rather than her. If he looks up, he's afraid he won't be able to look away. Over five million seconds have passed since he last saw her smile and he's starting to forget what she looks like when she does.

She paces from one side of her room to the other, finally collapsing in a slump on the floor. She rocks unsteadily and it's as if her body doesn't seem to know how to move anymore.

Her eyes meet his, red-ringed and swollen in their panic, and his throat tightens as he realizes this is too much for him. He should be calling Mr. Madsen or maybe 911 and his hand fumbles for the phone in his pocket.

Then her eyes close and the breath she exhales is slow, a sliver of reason. "I miss her," she says, her voice as small as a twelve-year-old's.

"Of course you do," he murmurs, because he doesn't know what else to say. She nods though and he slides to the floor next to her. She winces at his closeness and his hands hover near her. He will put her to bed and then he'll call. He can do that much. "I'm going to help you to bed," he says, and when she flinches again, he doesn't know if she will let him. Seconds crawl between them, shadows of uncertainty pulling too harshly at his mind. Then, she holds her hands out for him to grasp and her skin feels paper-thin in his hands. He pulls her unsteadily to her feet and guides her to her bed. He lifts the covers over her small frame but she grasps his leg as he turns away.

He pauses as she tugs him towards her, wrapping her arms around his stomach. He sighs and sits next to her, letting her lean against his chest. He feels as broken as she looks, this girl who has wormed herself into his heart, and now she is wasting away before him. She's like a little girl and as he holds her, he's reminded of his mother cradling him after a nightmare. He combs his fingers through her hair, avoiding the knots snarled past his fingers.

"I don't know where I am," she mumbles into his shirt and her warm breath tickles him through the fabric.

His hand pauses in mid-air. "Well, you're in your room. Your photos are on the wall there." He stops to examine the polaroids before him, the Max in each one much more alive than the ghost beside him. "Lisa's by the window, oh." He regards the withered mess of a plant and thinks it's probably not worth it to mention.

But she shakes her head and he realizes that isn't what she means. "Everything is jumbled up. Sometimes I'm here, sometimes Chloe is still here. Sometimes no one is here at all." Her voice is hesitant, her words choppy.

"Well, you're here now, with me, in your bed," and he blushes as he realizes that isn't how he should present their situation. "I mean, look." He grasps her hand and lifts it to her face. "This is you. You're here, you're real. Just as real as the blanket around you, just as real as me." He places her hand to his chest, where his heart is beating away furiously. "This is right now. And I'm right here. It's going to be okay." He doesn't know when it will be, it definitely isn't right now, but he knows that time whittles away at everything. So he lets the seconds pass between them, listens to the deep heaving of Max's breaths as she finally dozes off. He only realizes as he reaches to flip the light off and tug another blanket over him that she's wearing his hoodie. He doesn't know why that should make him smile, but it does.


End file.
